The clock has stopped...

I added the "countdown" button shortly after I found out my first grandchild was on the way. As of today, his due date, the clock has stopped -- but, so far, no baby. There are still a few more hours left  -- he could still arrive on December 3rd but I'm kind of doubting it, unless Shannon goes into labor right now and delivers fairly quickly. I wonder what the percentage is of babies who come on their actual due date.

We jump every time the phone rings.

I thought he might come early, in November, and that may have been partly because of hoping against another day -- December 6th. That was the day my daddy died, a Sunday, in 1981, and the day one of our dogs, Butler, died, on a Saturday, two years ago. And, yet, the idea that something joyful might happen on that day is maybe a good reason to hope it is that day, after all. I know one thing, after birthing three babies myself, they'll come when they come and they'll come how they come, despite the best-laid plans.

Today was another "birth" of sorts -- I finally finished writing/editing/posting my latest story. It's always a bittersweet day when that happens -- I've lived and breathed Cade and Delaine for, strangely enough, about nine months now and today was the day I could finally write "The End." I've been quite worried about letting go -- these characters have grabbed me more than any others else I've written and to have their voices go quiet unnerves me. I need the break but hope it won't be long before a new set of voices start whispering, then shouting in my ear.

So, I am free...and waiting for someone else to break free and see the world for the very first time. It's probably a good thing we don't remember being born -- or what things look like when we first open our eyes. It would probably traumatize us for life.

So, here's to endings and beginnings...

For you, again.

This is not a monumental birthday. Not one with a zero or a five on the end. Simply a 23rd. It's not my birthday, either -- I'm a long way from twenty-three.

But, today is my middle child's (and only son's) birthday.

We didn't know what he was before he was born (I knew with both my girls). He was turned wrong during my one and only sonogram so we spent the whole time in the dark. By the time he was born on that hot July day, I was begging my doctor to tie my tubes -- he wisely refused, knowing I was under duress.

The duress came from having a placental abruption, followed by an emergency c-section, blood transfusions and small chunks of lost memory (like the first time I held him). One of the things I remember very clearly -- turned on my side so that all I could see was my doctor's feet -- was the doctor saying that they had to get the baby out before there was a disaster.

And, they did. Wesley was fine, had weathered the storm. I wasn't so lucky -- in fact, I remember at one point, looking at my husband -- who as a physician knew all the things that can and will go wrong -- and asking him if I were going to die. I survived, though I had to spend nearly ten days in the hospital.

I was one sick puppy, I can tell you that. And I didn't want to go through it again but went on to have another child anyway (and, yes, there were problems -- most likely caused by the abruption -- but different).

But, for Wesley, I'd do it all over again. Every single moment.

It was well-worth it.

Happy birthday, little man.

A little man who's now well over six feet tall but still, always, my little boy.

The adventure begins again...

I've been trying to get my thoughts together before writing this particular post. For those who only read my blog (and not my forum or who are not on Facebook), you aren't aware that last weekend brought more than senior prom and a beautiful daughter in a Cinderella dress.

It also brought news from our beautiful eldest daughter: she and her husband are expecting a baby in December. So, that means yours truly is going to be a grandperson! It did not come as a huge surprise -- I'd had a feeling it would be sooner rather than later -- though it seems only yesterday (instead of two years ago) that I was writing about wedding festivities.

I haven't had to deal with an infant in eighteen years so I'm feeling a little rusty. Couple that with an admission -- which I've always freely given -- that I've never been a "baby person" and it's got me a little nervous. I'm just not one of those who melts when I see a baby -- or one that wants to hold one the moment I lay eyes on it. I've been told, though, that a grandchild is a whole other ballgame -- so I'm going to embrace that idea on a wing and a prayer -- and hope that, even if I can't be a fantastic grandmother, I can be a decent one. Is that too much to ask?! Or not quite enough?!

Of course, the ideas that are occupying my head at the moment are these...

The most important is that Shannon has a healthy pregnancy and easy birth and that the baby will be healthy (and easy!) as well.

Second, I'm trying to decide what I want him or her to call me.

I'm just not one that wants to be granny or grandma or grandmother. I don't want to be Mimi or Gigi or Nina -- or any other nicknames. I am willing to accept whatever the child wants to call me (and others who follow) but, until the child can speak, I have to refer to myself as something -- so I've got to decide what I want that to be. I have a few ideas but I don't know. I don't want to get ridiculous. And I don't want to make it more of an issue than it is (because, really, in the scheme of things, it isn't).

I've asked Mark what he wants to be called but all I get from him is a "hmmph". I don't think his brain has wrapped around the idea at all.

I think he's feeling a little, shall I say, too mature. We're both fifty and I think I've accepted that as a number more than an age (though my body does remind me quite often that I'm no spring chicken). The thing is, men always seem to hang on to certain juvenile areas in their brains so he needs to just connect with that and run with it. And try not to annoy me in the process.

As they say (who are "they", anyway?), the only cure for old age is dying young. So, I'm determined to embrace each new stage of my life with as much gusto as I can manage.

Even if that means my child is having a child.

So, let the adventure begin again...

This is where it all started...


Mark, Lynn and our pet, Peeve, 1984

Princess Carrie

I have trouble resizing photos so please go here for a few of Carrie's prom photos -- I think she looks like a princess -- don't you?!

Set to Kill

Well, it's over.

Volleyball, that is. The big regional competition was in Charlotte, NC, last weekend. Carrie's team played very well on Friday and Saturday but, on Sunday, they just didn't have it together and they were eliminated after the first match. Well, you know what they say, you win some, you lose some...

I would have loved to see them win at least one match -- because this was Carrie's last hurrah with the CSRA Heat, the volleyball club she's played in for five years -- it would have been nice to have exited winning, rather than losing but, again, that's just the way it is.

Her tears were contagious after the last game -- before I knew it, I was sobbing like a baby. Hugging her, I told her it wasn't because they had lost but because it was the end of an era, not only for her but for me. My oldest daughter played for the Heat (then called by a different name) and for various reasons we didn't get to go to many of her games but, with Carrie, we pretty much made them all -- that's what happens, I guess -- the last child at home becomes, for awhile, an "only" child and, with that, gets all the benefits.

I've never been the "team mom" or "room mother" type but, during the last few years, I've served as team mom three times (including this year) and was pretty much it for one other time when the titular team mom pretty much turned it over to me toward the end. For the most part, I had parents who responded and did what was asked. When parents do what they're supposed to, it makes the job a lot easier.

Will I miss it? No, not the team mom part -- nor will I miss the early morning traveling to various locations -- or sitting on my butt all day (it's amazing how sitting can wear you out). I will miss seeing Carrie play. Maybe one day, Shannon and Carrie can play a game together -- now that would be a sight! The long and short of it -- considering Shannon is 5'10" and Carrie is...not.

Carrie served as setter the last few years, not only on the Heat team but on her high school team as well. She goes to a Catholic school and their motto is the same as Notre Dame -- the Fightin' Irish. So, we called her our "Irish Setter". If you don't know volleyball, the setter is basically the quarterback of a volleyball team. She pretty much has her hands on every ball -- she determines where to set it so that the hitter can hit it. She also had some moves of her own -- tipping the ball over the net when the other team didn't expect it. Carrie is actually left-handed but she uses her right-hand a lot -- but with tipping, it could be one or the other. Carrie was a good server, too -- something she also did right-handed. Like everybody else, there were days she was on and some she was off -- but when she was on, her serves were hard to return.

Volleyball is a great sport because all shapes and sizes can play. They need tall girls, for hitting and "killing", but they need shorter ones, too, because tall girls have trouble "digging" the ball. And, quite often, the setter will be one of the shorter girls -- on this team, this year, Carrie was the shortest one of all. But sometimes tremendous power comes in small packages.

So, at the end of the game last Sunday, I cried. I cried because it was the end. And, somewhere in there, I cried for all the other volleyball, basketball, baseball and soccer games that are over, too.
They do grow up, don't they? And, that's the way it's supposed to be.

And then there will be grandchildren and it starts all over again. Well, sort of. At least then, I won't have to be responsible for anything...

And I'm certainly not going to be Team Granny...

But, then again...

Goodbye, Wrennie

I read something on Facebook this morning that made me think something was wrong. I even told my husband that I thought something was going on but I wasn't sure what it was. And, with the peculiar things people often post on Facebook -- things that make no sense 0r things people seem to think everybody wants to know -- it's hard to separate the wheat from the chaff.

It didn't take long, though, to find out what was happening. My former sister-in-law died this morning. At the moment, it's not known what happened -- at 6 AM she was alive, at 9 AM, she was not -- and we may never know for sure.

Wrennie was only a couple of years older than I am. I'd known her since Mark's brother married her some twenty years ago. Their subsequent divorce a couple of years ago was as sudden and shocking as this news today.

It was because of this divorce that we ended up with their much-loved black pug -- then called K.C but who we renamed Darcy. Unfortunately, last summer we lost Darcy (see "canines" in labels).

Today, I know Wrennie got a pug kiss on arrival.

RIP

The Twain Shall Meet....

Last August, I reached the milestone of my 50th birthday. Though I celebrated with family and friends, it was really a day like any other. Just another number. Of course, I can't deny that I feel the effects of aging but, overall, I think it's very true that "you're as young as you feel". And, anyway, you can't stop time so you might as well embrace it.

Twenty-five years ago today, I embraced something entirely different.

Today my eldest turns 25.

There was a moment of pure terror when she was placed in my arms for the first time. A moment of wondering, what have we done? And how in the world do you get this tiny being into adulthood without messing everything up? And never mind paying for it.

I was 25 years old when Shannon was born. And, now I've had 25 years of watching her grow (literally -- she's 5'10"!) into the beautiful young woman she is today. A married woman. And, at some point, we'll be getting that call that she's going to be a mother herself. I didn't really know how to be a mother when she was born and I don't know how to be a grandmother, either, but I imagine I'll learn. And probably pretty quickly, when the time comes. After the numbness wear off a bit.

This birthday may just be another number but the memories of the past and the hope of the future are all rolled into one on this special day.

Happy Birthday, Shannon -- my firstborn -- the one we had to practice on -- and to learn from -- and are still doing so 25 years later.

I love you!

Happy Birthday!!

For those who've been reading this blog, you know I turned the big 5-0 last August. Now it's my husband's turn. He always jokes about how we were born in different decades -- though I'm only four months older than he is.

We'd hoped to go on little trip this weekend -- he took yesterday and Monday off -- but it turned out there's a volleyball tournament so off we go.

I feel bad because I haven't done a thing for him. Nothing. He's too hard to buy presents for -- he mentioned a new leather coat but I figured it would be better if he actually tried one on and found a style he liked. But, so far, I haven't been able to get him to even go look. I suppose I should have just bought one and then we could have taken it back. But, Christmas, 2008, I got him a jacket which didn't fit -- he was supposed to go with me to pick out a replacement but he never did -- and I never even took the thing back for a refund. Oh, well, the high school auction got something nice -- and I think it went for me than I paid for it.

He said he doesn't feel any different today than he did yesterday. I know the feeling.

Merry Christmas, y'all!!

Humans: Wesley, Carrie and Shannon (Shannon's husband, Greg, wasn't here for the photo -- poor timing on my part)

Canines: Clayton, Neville, Daphne, Liesl and Madigan

Thanksgiving

I'm not much on traditions. That's not to say I don't follow some but, for the most part, I'd rather mix it up a little. I grew up with the tradition that every Easter, every Thanksgiving, every Christmas had to be spent at my aunt's. Now, I'm not saying that was a bad thing -- at least not when I was little -- but when I started to grow up, the traditions didn't -- so even with a husband and, then children, this tradition was never relaxed. I can still recall my aunt wondering why in the world we had to be with Mark's family on holidays -- as if his side of the family didn't count.

As far as I'm concerned, when traditions start to weigh too heavily or when they are no longer conducive to peace and joy then, perhaps, it's time to rethink them. Mark and I tried to make everybody happy when we were first married and, for awhile, it was fairly easy because both sets of families lived in the same town (though we didn't). It just meant that on the different "feast" days, we were stuffed by the end of the day, having had to dine at two different places -- and on the same type of food. Fortunately, at Christmas, Mark's mother had her big meal on Christmas Eve (and Thanksgiving at night), while my aunt had her big feasts at lunch time. No exceptions. When Mark's parents moved to another town (not far enough away to be able to go to one gathering and not the other), things got a little more difficult.

When I look back on my childhood, I do have fond memories of my aunt's (where, by the way, I was the only child there. Ever.) but I also remember that we never really had our own traditions at my own family's house. We opened presents and then we had to make sure we got to dinner on time or else. Traditions shouldn't be that way. Nobody ought to feel, if they don't follow the yearly script, that they will be in the doghouse.

After we had children, the rules didn't change but, eventually, we did. I put my foot down and said we were no longer going to travel for Christmas (Thanksgiving -- with no presents -- was easier to deal with). We were going to spend it in our own house and, if anybody wanted to see us on that day, they'd have to come to us. After we made our decision, Mark's stepmom's daughters were happy -- it was something everybody had wanted to do but nobody wanted to be the first to suggest it. That is why we now go to the stepmom's house the Saturday before Christmas -- which, of course, is now a -- you guessed it -- tradition. And, if you don't show up, then you get to hear about how everybody was there except you. Oh, well...

But what it boils down to is this -- if a tradition is working for you, if people enjoy it, if it's fun, then by all means, carry on. But when folks get criticized or guilt-tripped about not being able to make it on a certain day or at a certain time, then I think it may be time to take stock of what the holidays are all about, anyway. You know, the old peace and harmony thing. And what's wrong with doing something different every year if the opportunity presents itself?

So, if I don't get another post up before Thanksgiving, I hope all of you who are celebrating, will have a glorious day surrounded by friends, family, food and faith.

And, thank you, for reading my little blog.

Keeping up with the Stewart kids...

After my last post about not liking sports, here is a post about liking them. Last night, at the sport's banquet at Carrie's school, she received the MVP award for volleyball (for the second year in a row). I won't say it wasn't expected because, well, she was the most valuable player. And, while I'm at it, she's number four in her senior class.

I really shouldn't call the thing last night a banquet because the food never showed up -- we usually have barbecue with all the trimmings -- but the caterer got mixed up on the date and the athletic director didn't know until they didn't show up. Here's a suggestion -- always confirm the caterer the morning of the event. But now that I think about it, I'm not sure we confirmed anything on the morning of Shannon's wedding. Everybody showed up, though.

Speaking of Shannon, she has just received a lovely diploma which says "Master of Business Administration in Healthcare Administration". We're very proud of her for continuing her education. She never had a chance to look for a job in Florence -- she and Greg bought their first house in South Carolina and, within weeks of settling in, Greg got a promotion (he works for CSX railroad) and they are moving close to Charlotte, North Carolina -- next week, actually. They'll be about the same distance from us as they were -- and, being close to a bigger city will be nice for them. I really like Charlotte myself -- between volleyball and concerts, we've been there quite a few times. By the way, we're quite proud of Greg, too -- every parent hopes their child marries someone who is willing to work hard to get ahead. I know of some heartbreak, in other families, with children making poor decisions and my heart goes out to them. There's one thing I've discovered, though, you can give your children everything they need to make it in this world, but they have to take advantage of what you've provided.

I suppose I should talk about Wesley, too. He's at Georgia Tech -- funnily enough the University of Georgia's arch rival -- not sure where the match-up is this year (see, I told you I don't keep up with things like this) -- but I know Wesley will be here for Thanksgiving, then go either to Athens or back to Atlanta for the game on the Saturday after. Maybe since those horrid and embarrassing after-game photos came out, football fans will be on their best behavior and not trash anything. Anyway, he's doing very well in a hard school so we're proud of him, too. I haven't seen him since he cut all of his hair off so that should be interesting. When I saw his photo on Facebook, I hardly recognized my own boy!

So, I'm starting my Thanksgiving early by being thankful for my four kids. I'm proud of them all.

As all get-out...

Sometimes I think it's a mother's lot to feel guilty a good deal of the time. We are bombarded by what we should look like, what we should wear, how we should raise our children, whether we should work or stay home -- the list is endless. And let me add one more to that list -- the guilt of a daughter who is caught in the "sandwich" generation -- that generation who still have underage children at home but are also having to deal with an elderly parent. Nowadays, I say I have five children -- three that I gave birth to, one husband and one mother.

It's sort of a strange feeling when the tables have been turned -- to have the people who cared for you needing to be cared for themselves. At 85, my mother is in reasonably good health -- she lives alone, still drives (some) and can take care of her personal needs but, increasingly, she turns to me to drive her places, for her entertainment and social life, and to be the main listener of complaints (of which there are many). I don't have a problem being there for her -- I do owe it to her and I want to take care of her. However, there are also days I want to scream. Or run away.

So, far I have not run away.

I'm not an only child but my brother lives far away and is rarely here to pitch in. So, my life revolves around the schedules of my family -- and especially that of my mother. My husband, if he has to, can take care of himself. The last child at home is finally driving and can do likewise. But when my mother calls with a problem, I can't say, "you'll have to take care of this one yourself" because, frankly, she probably wouldn't -- and, believe me, she won't ask anybody else for help, either. I have learned, though, in my old(er) age, that I can sometimes just say no, as long as it's not an emergency. And I've also learned, as I did with my children, to state clearly that I'm not going to put up with bad behavior -- because, whether they'll admit it or not, most folks, when they get on up there in age, believe they've earned the right to act (out) however they want.

Um, no.

My mother likes for everybody to think she has a perfect life -- and, at this late stage (yeah, getting old is a bitch but the only cure is an early death), she nearly does, though her childhood, like many folks who grew up in the 20's and 30's, was not great. She revels in people telling her she never complains, is always happy, always has a kind word. All of this is true.

But for other people.

I am her dumping ground -- and, quite honestly, sometimes I feel my shoulders are sagging from the weight of being her one and only. I try to spread my own copious whining around -- my husband hears a lot, my "real-life" friends hear some, my internet buddies hear it -- and I have this blog and my forum to work out many of my grievances. My children hear a little -- especially the oldest -- sorry, Shannon, it goes with being the firstborn. I try not to put everything on one person. But, for my mother, I'm it. She does not even want my brother to know of any problems, small or large. She does thank me sometimes -- and people will tell me she sings my praises -- though that is not why I do what I do. It's simply a matter of caring -- and of family responsibility.

Occasionally, though, I just need a short break. Lately, these have been few and far between but sometimes she'll go to south Georgia to visit with relatives. She really only wants to go for three or four days but she's "captive" when she goes down there because someone else does the driving. Yesterday, I took her halfway and my cousin picked her up for the rest of the journey - we'll do the same for the return trip. But, my cousin and I can pretty much set the day and time and, to be honest, I need a full week, at the very least, to recharge my batteries -- so that I can start all over again. If I'm lucky, I might get a couple such breaks per year -- and it's like a mini-vacation without leaving home.

Of course, this all makes me wonder if my children will one day feel the same about me. I hope not. I hope I'll become an agreeable old lady -- and, yeah, I know I have some work to do. I've already asked them to please not let only one of them shoulder the entire burden of their father and me -- or their spouses' parents -- when we are elderly -- and that it's rather backbreaking for the one who has to carry the entire weight, all the time.

Anyway, there is the ever-present guilt. No one would bat an eye if you said you needed a break from your children -- or if you put them in daycare while you work. But, when you say you need a break from a parent, sometimes you can almost hear the gasp of disbelief.

But it's your mother!!

And, if anybody else ever says to me, "just be glad you still have her...", I will not be held responsible.

I am glad and I do love her. But I'm also often aggravated, as we say in the south, as all get-out. But, that's the way of it, isn't it? The ones you love the most are usually the ones who can also annoy you the most. Sometimes, I think they are actually trying -- and it usually works because those that know us well also know what buttons to push.

Because we tend to wear, not only our hearts, but our buttons on our sleeves.

Miss Carrie, Driving

I've written about the "lasts of the last" as my youngest child finishes activities during her senior year of high school. They are not only her lasts but ours as well since she is the third and last child. But today I want to write about a first. At 17 and a half, she is driving to school, by herself, for the first time. Before I finish writing this, she should be there -- and should have called me to let me know she arrived safe and sound.

We've had a struggle getting her to drive at all. My other two could not wait. Carrie has done everything possible not to drive. But, finally, with daily volleyball practice over, she took her driving test last Friday and she passed. She cried all the way to the DMV. And, this morning, she was crying when she left the house. Fear is a powerful thing -- but also a powerful motivator. We all know that a healthy dose of it can keep us on our toes -- and being on our toes while driving is necessary at all times. We've tried to impart to all of our kids that, most of the time, you only have to look out for what you are doing; while driving, you have to be responsible not only for your actions but also for the actions of everybody else -- because people can be idiots while behind the wheel.

I'll admit I've been aggravated with her lack of driving. Sitting in the school parking lot, waiting for her for thirty minutes -- when I didn't know she had a meeting or volleyball ran late -- is quite annoying. Trying to figure out how to get her where she needs to be and my elderly mother where she needs to be at the same time has been frustrating on more than one occasion. I probably picked on her -- mostly jokingly -- too much about it -- and there were times I was genuinely upset, however, I'm the sort who believes that everything happens for a reason and, for some reason, Carrie was not meant to drive alone before now.

So, today was the day.

And, by the way, she's there.

Be happy, be safe

This week, in our area, a 17 year old, who was working on his Eagle Scout badge, went to the track at his high school to work out. When he failed to come home, his father went out looking for him -- and found him -- on the track -- dead. So far, there has been nothing about foul play -- the boy had asthma, even though it was "under control". I can tell you, however, as someone with asthma, it's never really under control. I have gone months without using my inhaler, then suddenly, for no apparent reason, have needed it. Sometimes it's due to something respiratory, sometimes, there seems to be no reason at all.

But the main thing that went through my mind was this:

I have a 17 year old.

Not too long ago, a young man lost his life in a boating accident. I heard this on the radio several times but didn't connect the dots until I read his name. He was one of four Russian orphans that former neighbors had adopted. When they were young, we'd seen them become "Americanized" -- they seemed to go from barely speaking English to not being able to tell they were from Russia overnight. But an unwise decision, out on the lake, took his life.

But the main thing that went through my mind was this:

I have a twenty-two year old.

Recently, a cousin of mine, who's about the same age as I am, lost his 26 year old daughter. She had diabetes and did not take care of herself. She must have known the end could come at any time because she told her parents where she wanted to be buried. How many 26 year olds are thinking about that?

But the main thing that went through my mind was this:

I have a 24 year old.

As children grow, your worries about their well-being change but the fear of something happening to them remains. You have to let it go, to a certain extent, because they have to live their lives and you just can't wallow in worry every minute of the day. But, as a parent, those worrisome moments are always there, lurking. I suppose when I'm in my 80's and they are in their 50's, I'll still be fretting. And, I guess, that will include grandchildren by then so I'm pretty well screwed in the worry department.

But that's how it is. How it will be. You worry about those you love. And you say a prayer for them, every single day. And, sometimes, you just have to hear their voice so you'll know all is well. And you know, hearing that voice, if all isn't well. Then it's like pulling teeth to get it out of them.

Well, two out of three, anyway. The first one doesn't hold much back. The second one is sometimes forthcoming. The third one, forget it. But that one is just like me so what can I say? They are all themselves but my desire for each of them is the same:

Be happy. Be safe.

And call me.

The Lasts of the Last

I've decided to take a stab at writing about what it's like to have my third and last child prepare to leave the nest.

When my other two left for college, it was difficult (but not heartrending -- that's what they're supposed to do, after all) but, when Carrie, affectionately known as Carebear -- or not-quite-as-affectionately as Princess by her older brother -- leaves, it will be different because there will be no more children behind her to take up the slack. Mark and I will be empty-nesters -- and it will be just the two of us again.

Back in the day, when it was just the two of us the first time, he was in medical school and we had no money for anything. He was in school for long hours, followed later by even longer, back-breaking hours in his internship and residency. For years, as an anesthesiologist, he toiled even longer hours -- some 80+ per week -- and he missed a lot of his children's activities (though he tried very hard to be there when he could). We were pretty much slaves to his schedule as far as family time went. A couple of years ago, he went back to "school" and did a fellowship in Pain Management and now, he has no call, no weekends and, although he makes less money, it's been well worth the trade-off on many levels. All of this is to say that, next year, when we have no kids at home, we'll be free to do what we want, when we want.

Well, within reason.

There's always a chance that Carrie will decide to do a year or two at the college here in town before she moves on (doubtful). And, I still have my "fourth child" to look after -- my mother (harder than a toddler, I must say). So, it's not quite complete freedom. And, oh, yeah, there are the furry and feathered members of the family to deal with as well.

So, as Carrie navigates through her senior year, I'll try to share some thoughts, some memories and some ideas about what the future may hold -- always mindful that, as we make our plans, God is sometimes chuckling behind our backs.

Fiddy

So, what does 50 feel like?

The same as 49 did yesterday.

I guess it's a good thing that aging is gradual -- or I probably wouldn't be so thrilled -- not that I'm thrilled to be 50 -- however, I really don't care, if the truth be known. I truly do believe that age is a state of mind -- and, if you keep active -- especially your brain -- then that's half the battle. I hope so, anyway -- my brain may not be the brightest bulb in the pack but it's always on.

I've had several days of celebrating -- surrounded by good friends and family at a "gathering" (I don't want to call it a party) on Saturday -- nothing like Sconyer's Barbecue -- and especially nothing like having a get-together at the restaurant so there's no cleaning up. All my kids were here (except my son-in-law who I missed -- he had to work). I had a lazy day of it on Sunday (after church) and, today, has been a nice, easy-going day -- with a trip to the jewelry store, an art gallery and lunch with my hubby.

Several years ago, when Mark asked me what I wanted for my 50th birthday, I said "Scotland". I could have had that this year but I'm not much of a traveler -- though I know if I want to get to the UK, I'm going to have to, well, travel. I also decided I wanted to wait until all the kids were grown. When my next birthday rolls around, they all will be -- well, if grown means they're all over 18! I know that may sound ridiculous to people who are used to hopping on a plane and flying all over the place but, for me, it's a major thing. Maybe this is why I write so many stories which have heroines heading overseas for adventure and love.

Well, I've got love already and, like a Hobbit, I'm not too keen on adventure -- but, hey, maybe it's about time...

Whack

Volleyball has started again -- high school volleyball, anyway. Once this is over, in October, we'll have about a two week rest before club volleyball starts. Either way, we spend a lot of time sitting on bleachers -- although we have a pair of fold-up rocking chairs that people stare at with lust.

I want to really try to enjoy this year -- as I watch my last child play for the last time. Carrie is a senior and, unless she chooses to pursue volleyball in college (I don't think she will but you never know), this will be it. Shannon played volleyball (got a full scholarship to a small college in SC but didn't want to go there) and basketball, Wesley played soccer mostly -- did a couple of turns with baseball and basketball. Carrie played a little basketball in middle school but, afterward, it was volleyball all the way. I know the game pretty well now, though I never played sports myself -- and I'm totally uninterested unless a child of mine is playing -- but I never paid much attention to details or rules, so don't ask me. I understand the ref's calls -- I just never see them when they happen.

Carrie goes to a Catholic high school -- they are the Fightin' Irish -- Carrie's position is setter -- so we refer to her as the"Irish Setter". Cute, huh? We probably didn't make that up but we like to think we did.

So, this year is going to be a year of "lasts". Some, we will be grateful to never have to do again; others we will miss. I won't miss the early mornings or long days of volleyball but I will miss watching my kids play.

But there are always grandchildren...

The Scariest Thing

I had my first colonoscopy yesterday -- it went well -- don't remember a thing about it -- praise be to God -- but, afterward, I nursed a headache and nausea all day -- probably a reaction to the narcotic. Still, it could have been worse and I'm glad I had it done -- next time, I'll know what to expect. And, yes, the prep is worse than the procedure.

I'm at that age -- nearly 50 -- where they recommend having your first one if you aren't having problems or don't have a family history of colon cancer; after that, it's every five years -- unless they find something -- which they did. I had one polyp -- now, chances are this is benign so I'm not worried (though I'll be glad to get the path report) but this means that I'll have to do this more often than I would have wished.

But here is the scariest thing -- with all the talk about healthcare, will I even be a candidate for having this done every three years? Or, will this come under the "not necessary" label? That bothers me -- because I don't want to end up with colon cancer -- or any kind of cancer -- because some bureaucrat decides that chances are I won't get it so, therefore, the test/procedure is not worth the cost.

See, here's the thing, people complain about unnecessary tests all the time. But, let someone not have a test but then get sick -- then they want to blame someone because they didn't have the proper test. You can't have it both ways.

But, I ask you, what would you prefer? An unneccessary test which showed you didn't have a disease -- or no test which might have shown that you did? For me, it's no contest. Give me the unnecessary test -- I'm not willing to play Russian roulette with my health or that of my loved ones.

Nor do I want the government deciding what healthcare I need or who I have to see to get it. And all I have to do is look at Medicare, Medicaid and the VA system to see how the government runs things.

If you've read my profile, you know that I'm married to a physician -- so I am able to see the situation from both sides -- I've been a patient many times and our insurance premiums (yes, we pay them, too -- as well as massive malpractice premiums) are skyhigh because I have high blood pressure, asthma, hypothyroidism, arthritis and diet-controlled diabetes. Yes, there needs to be some changes but making it so that your doctor is not the one who decides what you need is just plain foolhardy.

My husband is an excellent physician -- he would be embarrassed at me for saying that. I know I'm prejudiced but, honestly, if I didn't think he was, I just wouldn't say anything. He is caring, works long, hard, stressful hours, is frustrated because he can't see patients fast enough to suit them or him (he can't work 24/7), is fussed at by irate patients who think they are the only one he has to see during any given day (wait until he has to cut his time with them even farther if everybody comes running to the doctor because it's "free"), patients who get mad because he won't give them the drugs they are seeking, patients who think nothing of throwing a doctor's bill into the trash, though they wouldn't dare stop paying for their cigs or alcohol.

Yeah, there are perks to being married to a doctor but I can tell you from experience, that although I know my husband loves me and his children, the sacrifices have not been insignificant. Sure, if we have an emergency, he'll be here but our lives have always revolved around his schedule -- and the patients come first - because of duty. We are, however, a close second.

He says if he had to do all it all over again, he would not go into the medical field. The idea of anybody telling him what he can or cannot do for his patients just rubs him the wrong way -- you absolutely cannot do the best thing for your patients if your hands are tied. Unfortunately, I think a lot of good doctors will be retiring early -- and the best and brightest who might have chosen to become physicians will probably think twice -- which is sad -- and scary -- because, in my opinion, the people who are taking care of our health needs ought to be the best and brightest. Of course, it could be that they'll lower the standards for getting into medical school if they need more doctors.

Our youngest daughter, who is 17, is making noises about going to medical school. We will encourage her in whatever she chooses to do but the old saying about becoming a doctor holds true:

Don't do it unless it's the only thing you can think of doing.

Otherwise, pick something else which requires less schooling, less tuition, less stress.

And more family time.

Because you can't get that back.

With Great Purpose

As anybody who's been reading this blog or my forum knows, we lost one of our Boston Terriers last December. It was unexpected, sudden and everything played out very quickly. I can tell you, quite honestly, that I've not experienced that kind of grief often. I'm not ashamed to say that Butler was not "just a dog". None of them are -- they are family.

But now, we've almost come to that point again. Could be very soon, could be longer than we think. Spencer, our eldest pup -- and also a Boston -- is really on his last legs. He's totally blind and has had two hernia surgeries in the last six months but, beyond that, he just seems to be getting more feeble every day. The vet thinks he's had a mild stroke and we're not sure he hasn't had more than one. He's having trouble balancing and is starting to "tip over" even when he's sitting. He's also begun to have problems making it outside to do his business -- and, this morning, he has vomited twice. The last time, he fell over and was laying on the floor and I didn't quite know if he was going to get back up but he did.

God has already been in motion, though -- silently, as he often does, but with great purpose.

I had not been looking on Petfinder because I had no room for another dog and because it upsets me every time I see all the homeless pets. But, for some reason, I checked out the site a couple of days ago and there was a Boston Terrier listed with a local group.

No, I said. No way.

We'd already adopted a Bugg (Boston/Pug mix) after Butler's death and, even though my eldest will be soon be taking my "granddog" (Reese) away soon, we really weren't going to actively pursue getting another dog until something actually happened to one of the others.

However, there the little angel was, looking at me from the computer screen. I told Mark about him and, at first, he only said, "hmmph" but then, a few minutes later, he asked when we could see him -- because it might just be what we needed -- to have a young Boston coming in, as an old one leaves. So, the next morning, taking him at his word, I sent in an application and, well, we're supposed to meet "Angus" on Saturday. If he approves of us (he will) and we approve of him (ditto), he'll be able to come home with us that day. We don't need to wait -- he will not come to replace anybody -- he will come because he needs us and we need him.

He won't remain "Angus". All my animals are named after someone real or a character and "Angus" will be no different. We've all been thinking about names -- though we might be jumping the gun -- he's not ours yet -- but I'd like to start calling him his new name as soon as possible. I've heard that some rescue groups think that it's detrimental to give a dog a new name but, with experience, I'll just say that's hogwash. I've been in the dog-adopting business for years and I know a thing or two about it.

So, now, we wait. We watch. And, once again -- not for the first time or the last -- we prepare to say goodbye. It's more bearable knowing Spencer has lived a long, full life. But, as anyone who's looked into the trusting face of a beloved pet knows, it's never, ever easy.

Going Nowhere Fast

Another summer has come and, once again, we've made no vacation plans. In fact, we haven't been on a real vacation in years. I don't know why we can never seem to make plans but we just don't and, then the time my hubby has taken off from work, just goes down the drain. Well, not entirely, we can always go to the lake but that's not a vacation -- not for me, anyway, because when I'm there, I have to do all the same things I do here -- laundry, cooking, cleaning -- all of those things I love so much that I can't wait to do them twice.

All of the deciding where to go and what to do always falls to me -- so, if I don't make any suggestions, then I get all the blame. You know, it's funny, but the sentence, "whatever you want to do" is a double-edged sword. On one hand, it's a great thing to be told; on the other, it can be a burden.

Of course, we have another problem -- a very old dog who's blind and can't be left alone for more than a few hours at a time. Board him, you say? Well, that's easy for some folks but we never board our dogs -- we have a room on the back of our house (it was a screened-in porch when we bought the house) where the dogs stay when we're gone -- there's a dog door and plenty of room for all (six) of them. For a long trip, I can have someone come over and check them -- but there's no way I could leave Spencer to fend for himself overnight. So far, he's been able to find his way around -- he goes out and comes back in -- but I worry that if he somehow got stuck outside, he'd die from the heat. I just can't deal with that.

Anyway, I suggested we go down to Universal Studios in Orlando -- that's about an 8 hour drive for us. But Mark has already complained that it would be too hot. He suggested Williamsburg -- about the same amount of driving but north. However, I don't know that it's not just as hot there -- and I don't think they have express passes, either. At this point, considering the target date of arrival is only two weeks away, it's not looking good for anywhere.

It's not a big deal for us, really, but I feel bad for Carrie who never has any vacation stories to tell. Of course, how boring is it, anyway, to go off with just your mom and dad?

So, I don't know. I need a break -- some time away in a place where it's not up to me to decide what's for dinner or to make sure everybody has clean towels.

What I wouldn't give for a transporter -- no packing, no traveling -- and sleep in my own bed every night. With my own dogs. And the TiVo. And my computer in close proximity.

Hmmm. I'm beginning to think I really don't want to go anywhere after all. Maybe a good book would do me just as well.